Lyrics: Caronte 2025 Youtube: Inoxidables Podcast Podcast: go.ivoox.com/sq/2330386 Left Alabama at twelve with a worn minor chord, Mama screamed: “Boy, that blues’ll eat your soul!” Nashville smelled like whiskey and diesel rain, Slept in junkyards, my guitar for a bedframe. The barman growled: “Play or scrub these floors,” My pay? Half-dollars and a mattress crawling with roaches. Oh Lucille! Your frets carved scars on my hands, But no gold records, no cash, no fans… I’m the ghost of the juke joint, the shadow of Track 9, A bluesman’s warning: “Don’t leave your porch behind.” Oh Lucille! Your frets carved scars on my hands, But no gold records, no cash, no fans… I’m the ghost of the juke joint, the shadow of Track 9, A bluesman’s warning: “Don’t leave your porch behind.” Fame came with a contract and a cocaine rhyme, Tours, pills, spotlights… but loneliness all the time. In every empty hotel, ‘tween bottles and gloom, I heard Mama whisper: “This ain’t your blues.” Oh Lucille! Your frets carved scars on my hands, But no gold records, no cash, no fans… I’m the ghost of the juke joint, the shadow of Track 9, A bluesman’s warning: “Don’t leave your porch behind.” Back on the porch, warm beer, sun fadin’ low, Lucille hums: “Real blues don’t sell… They grow where you go.” ...
